


Panes of Gold

by RoseAndPsyche



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Family, Gen, Philosophy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24961576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAndPsyche/pseuds/RoseAndPsyche
Summary: "What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us." ― Ralph Waldo Emerson. Four vignettes exploring the four 'titles' C. S. Lewis briefly mentioned at the end of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	1. Coming of Day

**Coming of Day**

* * *

_By all the glories of the day_   
_And the cool evening's benison_   
_By that last sunset touch that lay_   
_Upon the hills when day was done,_   
_By beauty lavishly outpoured_   
_And blessings carelessly received,_   
_By all the days that I have lived_   
_Make me a soldier, Lord._

_By all of all man's hopes and fears_   
_And all the wonders poets sing,_   
_The laughter of unclouded years,_   
_And every sad and lovely thing;_   
_By the romantic ages stored_   
_With high endeavour that was his,_   
_By all his mad catastrophes_   
_Make me a man, O Lord._

_I, that on my familiar hill_   
_Saw with uncomprehending eyes_   
_A hundred of thy sunsets spill_   
_Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,_   
_Ere the sun swings his noonday sword_   
_Must say good-bye to all of this; -_   
_By all delights that I shall miss,_   
_Help me to die, O Lord._

\- Lieutenant William Noel Hodgson, MC, Published 29 June 1916

* * *

Light slanted through a turret window, running fingers along the furniture in the room as if it were testing the surface for dust. There was a certain quality to the light that poured through the Cair Paravel windows; it was a golden light, a honey-saturated light, a light like the golden sky at evening. People speculated that gold had been used in the melding of the glass when the panes were first being made and Cair Paravel was still a young castle. Those walls had grown old, vines circling in tendrils to burst into bloom, heavy with roses, but the light had stayed the same.

"Idiocy!" a glove hurled through the air landed half in and half out of an open traveling trunk.

"Blast!" A young man of the larger variety was kneeling on the floor in a patch of paned sunlight, next to a pile of assorted clothing, weapons and gear, haphazardly sorting through them.

"Double blast!" another glove sailed through the air to join the first.

"Peter," a cool, long-suffering voice said from atop a table in the middle of the room. "Those gloves don't match. One of them is a hawking glove. I dare even _you_ to fight Giants in a hawking glove."

Peter darted a glance at the grave young man sitting on the table, then started to his feet to pick the felonious glove out of the trunk. He looked down at it ruefully, then laughed and hurled it at the other man's head.

"Don't smile at me, brother," Peter dropped down to the floor again as Edmund caught the glove. "Here am I, off to fight Giants of a more gigantic strain than ordinary and here are you, you and Susan, bound for Tashbaan to have a look at this fellow, Rabadash, in his natural element. Of course, I'll stand by her choice…and I've told her so; but I don't have to enjoy it."

"We can't get out of it, now," Edmund replied with a flicker of frustration. "We agreed to go long before the Giants started pitching a fit. Believe me, old man, I'd far rather be going off with you to bash Giants then sailing away to spend a few months in Tashbaan."

"It's that fellow Rabadash I can't abide," Peter said abruptly. "There is a cruelty to him I don't think Susan understands. He's rotten through; I can tell by his handshake."

"A handshake! Peter! You can't tell the color of a man's heart by his handshake!"

Peter looked up querulously. "I can."

"Is that _just_?" Edmund asked. "Rabadash has done nothing to offend us…quite the other way around. He has been an ideal guest."

"Laugh at me as you will," Peter said sobering. "His handshake is limp…The fellow has been prancing around in purple paisley, cocking his little finger and twiddling his moustaches, slathering flattery on all of us. Do you know what he called me?"

Peter looked up and caught his brother's eyes and Edmund knew they had finally gotten to the crux of the matter.

"He called me 'High King Peter the Magnificent'."

Peter let this profound statement sink in for a moment, the indignant bearing of his body speaking louder than words, _What tosh…what foolery!_

Edmund shrugged, "Everyone calls you that, old chap."

The sunlight that danced and twirled about the room like fairy orbs suddenly seemed to dim and turn grey. Peter half started to his feet, then sat down again. His face had turned a curious shade.

"What?" Peter asked as if he weren't sure if he had heard.

"Everyone calls you that," Edmund repeated. "It's become a sort of unofficial title. We all have one."

Peter face was still.

"I've become known as 'The Just', Susan goes around being 'The Gentle' and Lucy is apparently 'The Valiant'. Don't take it too hard, Peter. People see what they want to see…and as far as a title goes, I think 'The Magnificent' isn't half bad."

Slowly, Peter stood and walked across the room to the tall light-gleaming window, to fiddle with something that wasn't there. At last he turned to face Edmund, his troubled features half shaded, half-light. "Is that how people see me, then?"

Edmund shrugged, not certain what to say.

"Do you remember that fellow in our world…" Peter paused, searching his memory. "I've forgotten his name: Henry the something…the sixth, or was it the eighth…the one with all those wives…"

"Henry the Eighth," Edmund replied mechanically.

"That's the chap…do you remember the painting of the fellow? He was a grand figure of a man…magnificent. No one who looked at him could say he wasn't. Was he Kind? Was he Gracious or Wise? Was he Humble? Did he even know what Justice was? No…he knew none of it…but he was certainly Magnificent."

"I don't think that's the way they mean it-"

"Empty…no quality or meaning. It's about as useful a title as 'Peter the Beef-Eater' or 'Peter the Over-Sleeper'," Peter laughed suddenly and striding across the room, pounded his brother on the shoulder. "Don't look so glum, old man. I'll live with it. Somehow."

~o*o~

The wind ran fleet-footed, barely touching the ground as she snatched up the sound of trumpets, the beat of many hooves, the cheerful shouts of warriors coming home at last. The tired and tattered banner, the lion on the green ground, rippled suddenly alive, wild with the wind, as if eager at the site of the fluttering pennants on the battlements of Cair Paravel, to show that it was the King's banner and proud. The horses' hooves rang like bells on the cobbles, cheerful and full of song. Lucy heard it first, as she flew down from the battlements calling for Edmund and Susan.

"They're here, they are here! Oh hurry, hurry!"

The wind shifted, causing the Great Narnian Banner to steam off the other way, revealing a knight on a black horse, his head bare, his helmet tucked under his arm. No one could call that face handsome, not as it was now, haggard with battle, and weary; but as he sat tall on his horse with an easy grace born of time and patience, eyes turned towards him. It was his bearing, not his beauty, which made him noble.

Lucy felt that she flew just as the wind flew, her feet not touching the ground and the knight, leaning down out of his saddle, swung her up before him with a chain covered arm.

"Oh Peter! Peter!" she gasped. "Oh Peter!"

"Not looking my best, I'm afraid," Peter said with a twinkle in his eye, "But I'll wager my face is a sight fairer than those of the giants," he chuckled. "Ugly brutes; but we have them where we want them now. And what of you? Edmund sent me tidings of hair-raising events…escapes from Tashbaan, battles with Rabadash, Prince Cor returned from the dead."

"It has been wonderful and terrible," Lucy replied, resting her head against his shoulder. "And I am so glad you are back."

The cavalcade streamed into the courtyard, ragged, but proud and battle-hardened from war. Edmund and Susan were there to greet them, to draw their royal brother down from his horse and bring him inside.

"You must be exhausted!" Susan reached up to not quite touch a cut on his cheek; with a smile he bent his head so she could kiss it instead. "Edmund, you must help him take off this heavy maille."

"What is it they are saying outside?" Peter asked as he leaned over so Edmund could draw the heavy-linked shirt over his head. "I hear chanting."

They were silent as they listened to the sound, like the roaring sea and tide outside the castle gates. Cheering, echoes of laughter and shouting seemed to reverberate around them and chanting, long and steady.

"They're calling you Magnificent, Peter," Lucy said, looking up into his weary face.

Peter straightened; the padded jacket he wore under his maille was streaked with rust, torn and mended. Dirt had been driven into every crevice of his being, yet his back was unbent and unbroken.

"Still on that, are they?" Peter asked with distaste, then he smiled, shaking his head at the innocent stupidity of the crowd. "Just at this moment, I'm Peter the Rusty, thanks very much."

Susan laughed and took his hand, leading him away, "I've had a bath drawn for you and dinner is laid out in your chamber...all of your favorite things…"

Edmund and Lucy stood watching them, listening to Susan's voice drifting down the corridor.

"Is there a bed there, too?" Peter's voice asked hopefully.

Edmund shook his head and Lucy, looking up, saw a faint smile on his face.

"He doesn't know he is Magnificent," Edmund said. "And that is why he is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a not very coherent exploration of the 'were called' C. S. Lewis mentioned in one spot in the end of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. It was such a minor reference that I wonder if he even remembered that he came up with 'titles' of Magnificent, Gentle, Just and Valiant. He certainly didn't mention them in any of his other books.
> 
> We never could figure out why they caught on. Terms like 'magnificent' and 'gentle' are fairly meaningless, the former being almost an insult, really only useful in describing a mountain range, while the latter is even stranger, considering he gave Susan a bow, with the expectation that she would eventually shoot things with it. Violently.
> 
> 'Were called' makes us think that the population of Narnia bestowed the names upon them and they really aren't meant to be taken seriously.
> 
> ~Rose and Psyche


	2. Fading Stars

Fading Stars

* * *

_IF you can keep your head when all about you_   
_Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,_   
_If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,_   
_But make allowance for their doubting too;_   
_If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,_   
_Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,_   
_Or being hated, don't give way to hating,_   
_And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:_

_If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,_   
_' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,_   
_if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,_   
_If all men count with you, but none too much;_   
_If you can fill the unforgiving minute_   
_With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,_   
_Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,_   
_And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!_

-Rudyard Kipling

* * *

The _Splendor Hyaline_ , with prow of a swan and wings of drawing sails, was a ship of dreams. All during that voyage to Calormen, the passengers almost forgot they were aboard a ship. Lights gleamed from her rigging, tracing her outline in gold in the clear depths below her keel as the Sea People, drawn on by the flickering flames that danced above, broke the water's surface and sang with songs so sweet those aboard the ship wept. How those sweet and soaring voices, that leapt like stars into the night sky, could pull at hearts and make strong men weak, knees buckle, hands shake…had long been the debate of scholars. The Sea People were called the Sirens of the Deep and when they turned their full power against their enemies, they could make men leap overboard and drown themselves.

Corin, who was a boy, didn't like to be seen Weeping in Public and Edmund was only slightly surprised when he found him tucked away in the small library aboard the ship. The lantern that gamboled merrily from the beam overhead, dashed gold in bucketfuls against the bulwarks as Edmund slipped his legs under the narrow table and sat down, resting his chin on his clasped hands.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he inquired with something of a twinkle in his eye.

Corin looked up and grinned through his tears. _Cheeky_ , Edmund thought.

"I'm reading sobering subjects," Corin explained. "It's beastly, this…having no control over one's emotions."

"There's a magic in it, I think," Edmund said. "To move us so."

"How do _you_ manage it, sir?" Corin asked pointedly. Edmund's eyes were dry.

"I feel it just as deeply as you do."

"More deeply…" Corin corrected, "Because you don't show it."

"You're being strangely philosophical tonight, Corin."

"A man ought to be, every now and then."

Edmund chuckled, then grew sober. To him, Corin was still a boy, a young and impetuous tousle-headed boy, but as Edmund looked at him now, he could see the flame of a man gazing out of those clear, blue eyes. Corin had been sent with them to Tashbaan for a reason; someday, as far-fetched as it seemed, he would be king and his father wanted him to learn all he could of those places far beyond the boarder of Archenland.

"What are you reading about, then?"

Corin shoved the book that was open on the table in Edmund's direction and on glancing down, Edmund saw a fine illustration of a woman with a drawn sword in one hand, a pair of scales in the other. A blindfold covered her eyes.

"Father says you know more about Justice than any man alive today," Corin said suddenly, his voice sounding hurt as if he had been personally wronged. "I don't like Justice. It seems too cold, too emotionless. It gives no second chances."

Edmund shook himself and leaned back in his chair as the ship heeled more sharply and the deck slanted under their feet. They could both still hear the music of the Sea People and the music of the waves slapping against the planking.

"Justice ought to be blind," Edmund said after a moment. "With no partiality, no second thoughts, no compromising emotions. Justice must be complete…the price must be paid."

"But-!"

"Justice may seem a terrible thing, but it is kind…not in a warm, comforting way, but in a grave and solemn way," Edmund paused. "In the world from whence _we_ came, there were times when there was no justice. Rather than Justice, there was ordeal and superstition. The Right of Strength was the only Right. Though it may seem cruel, we have something far greater; a standard that is the same for a king as for a peasant."

"I don't want to be King," Corin said flatly and there was a bitterness in his voice that took Edmund by surprise.

"I don't want to be King…I'm not made to be King…I haven't a head on me that's _fit_ to be King," Corin looked up, begging Edmund to see his case. "It's not fair to anyone…it's not right. I don't see the justice of it. I wish someone would have mercy on _me_."

"Mercy does not null Justice," Edmund replied with a faint smile. "The Price still must be paid."

"Can't the kingdom rule itself?" Corin asked, suddenly cheerful again. "I've always wished I had an older brother like you do."

Edmund smiled wryly, "I have none of the benefits of having an older brother; I'm still a king. No doubt my brother would say it was only fair."

Corin laughed, slamming the book shut with an outstretched hand, "it's no wonder they call you 'The Just'."

Edmund shook his head, his face grave and puzzled. "On the contrary," he replied, "It is the last title I ought to have. A more fitting one would be King Edmund the Redeemed."

Corin was silent, looking up at him. Those were things people never talked about: The Price, the Table, the Lion and the Sacrifice. It had happened before Corin was even born and what he knew of it was what his father had told him. Edmund spoke of it sometimes as a man who no longer feels its sting, but still understands its meaning.

~o*o~

The sound of a Donkey's hooves tapping in the corridor faded and fell like leaves falling from the crown of a tree. Silence hung in the room, a golden, peaceful silence…the kind of silence that always remained and shimmered whenever Aslan appeared. He had gone, but the silence continued.

King Lune cleared his throat, then looked at Edmund where he sat at the end of the table, "I trust your council, my friend. You said 'even a traitor may mend', do you think our friend Rabadash will?"

"I do not know," Edmund replied. "All men are as stubborn as donkeys at heart-" everyone chuckled at this "-perhaps seeing himself as he truly is will work a change on him. He has been given Mercy this once…he will not be offered it again."

Cor, who had been listening earnestly, his ears going pink, burst out: "I rather think he might change…I think even the worst can change, because Aslan can change anyone."

And he receded into his chair as everyone looked at him in surprise.

"I'd still liked to have boxed his ears," Corin said hastily at the sight of Cor's embarrassment and the subject was effectively altered; it took Lucy saying something witty about the weather to distract King Lune from correcting Corin yet again. The talk turned then to the Feast that was scheduled for later that day and presently Corin and Cor found themselves arguing and Lord Peridan and Lords Dar and Darrin rose to take them away before they did each other damage and Lady Aravis followed after like someone who doesn't _quite_ know where she should be.

" _Their_ lives will soon change," King Lune said, looking after them. "Corin will find that he will not have to be king after all…and Cor…"

"I rather think he will be the wiser of the two," Edmund said. "He has seen things that Corin never will. He has been shown Mercy and taken it."

"I believe you are right," King Lune replied.

And Edmund himself stood up to gaze out over the plain of Battle. It was torn and trampled like a field after a tremendous game of polo and there were small figures of people moving about, picking up things that had been dropped in the chaos. Edmund wondered about his own words. It puzzled him how people relied on his judgement; he, Edmund, who had been foolish enough to sell himself to a witch was called 'wise', and had been found wanting, yet set free, was called 'just'. It did not make sense…it was not Justice. He had been let off somewhere…he had been shown Mercy.

" _Why_ am I called 'The Just'?" Edmund asked abruptly, turning back into the room. "It is the last title a man who has been shown the ultimate Mercy ought to be called. I do not truly understand Justice; I was never called upon to pay the price. At the last moment, I was pardoned."

"That is _why_ you understand," Lucy said looking up with _that_ light in her eyes, the same golden light left over from Aslan's coming. "You have looked down both corridors, Justice and Mercy, and found that they meet in the middle in the end."

"I'd rather be known as Merciful…it is the greater of the two."

"Is it?" Lucy asked. "Justice _is_ Mercy…in the long run."

Edmund was silent, squeezing first one hand than the other, his head bowed as he thought. King Lune looked up at him from his place at the table, then cleared his throat, "I rather think that only the man who has been shown the greatest Mercy can be truly Just."


	3. Midday Shadows

Midday Shadows

* * *

_Your love was like moonlight_   
_turning harsh things to beauty,_   
_so that little wry souls_   
_reflecting each other obliquely_   
_as in cracked mirrors . . ._   
_beheld in your luminous spirit_   
_their own reflection,_   
_transfigured as in a shining stream,_   
_and loved you for what they are not._

_You are less an image in my mind_   
_than a luster_   
_I see you in gleams_   
_pale as star-light on a gray wall . . ._   
_evanescent as the reflection of a white swan_   
_shimmering in broken water._

\- Lola Ridge

* * *

Susan and Edmund stared at each other, then back at the boy standing in the doorway with torn and bloodied clothes and a black eye and a smile which made Susan want to smack him for making her so worried. There was a fountain lined with blue tiles in the middle of the room and the plash of it joined the singing of birds hanging in cages around the walls. A little sand-colored lark flitted two and fro, full of song and sunlight.

"I say, is there anything to drink?" Corin asked again.

"Did you see which way down the street he went?" Edmund interrupted, not hearing him.

"He turned right, but I lost sight of him," Corin replied. "He says he's going to Narnia. I told him to find me when he gets there."

Edmund shook his head and he and Susan stared at each other again, each reading horror in the other's eyes. They, neither of them, were quite sure of their own emotions at that moment. Then Susan stepped forward and drew Corin into her arms. Ordinarily Corin might have resisted, but he did the Noble Thing and did not pull away.

"Did the Tisroc find a boy like Corin and send him to us?" Edmund asked numbly. "Was the spy sitting in plain sight all the while?"

"I don't think he was a spy," Corin volunteered. "He didn't really seem like one."

"Whether he was a spy, or no, we must hold to our plan," Susan said quietly. "We have no other option."

"Your majesties," Lord Peridan said, bowing low. "Prince Rabadash approaches the house."

"What is the color of his horse?" Edmund asked quickly.

"He rides a white horse," the Lord Peridan replied.

"Thank the Lion for that!" Susan gasped. When they had first come to Tashbaan it had been explained to them by the Grand Vizier (in a moment of jest) that when the Tisroc or Rabadash rode out in anger they rode on black horses.

Edmund turned away and Susan saw his fist clench until his knuckles were white, but when he spoke, his voice was even, "I think if I see him again, I'll throttle him with my bare hands."

"Hush Edmund!" Susan whispered. "We still do not know if there are spies in the house."

"Nor do we know in what spirit he comes," Edmund replied, looking up. "Either he comes in friendship because he rides the white horse, or he comes meaning to deceive us."

"We must admit him," Susan said.

"Yes, we must," Edmund said in a voice that meant that he would rather tie the prince up and throw him in the river than let him set foot over the threshold.

"Edmund," Susan said quietly. "I will deal with him. Let me entertain him. He will understand your absence if you are down at the ship preparing for our banquet."

"I will not leave you to face that man alone," Edmund said grimly.

"I will not be alone," Susan reached out to touch her brother's hand. "We are never alone."

A few minutes later, Lord Peridan had stationed himself and Mr. Tumnus with Susan; he had once called Rabadash a mad dog and he feared the fire in the prince's eyes when he saw him. Susan flashed Lord Peridan a look that was almost frightened, then with all graciousness, drew Rabadash into the room, her smile radiant and unaffected without a hint of mistrust. She charmed him with all her power to charm, like the young maiden who charms the fabled unicorn. Susan's power was such that the mad dog became quiet and his expression of irritation turned to adoration.

"Milord, you are welcome here." Susan never lied. In her heart she was glad to see any living creature, no matter how venomous. In that moment she only felt compassion and pity.

"Dear lady," Rabadash said, his voice subdued. "Nothing could content me more than to rest in the shade of your company."

Susan laughed her silver laugh and called for refreshments to be brought in. She spoke in easy tones of many subjects, then she saw his face darken and realized that she had been speaking of Narnia. Easily, she changed the subject to the bazaar she had visited that morning and all the wonderful things she had seen there. But Rabadash's mind was elsewhere.

"Lady," he said abruptly, interrupting her in midsentence. "Every day I have come asking for an answer and every day you put me off and tell me to wait. I have grown tired of waiting."

"Sir," Susan replied. "Your favorite sport is the hunting of gazelle; you love to chance them through the desert with your dogs and your beautiful horses. There is a thrill in the chase, the thought of catching the uncatchable."

"I always catch them in the end," he replied querulously.

"Sometimes," she replied. "But sometimes the gazelle escapes."

He flashed her a dark look, unused to being reminded that he sometimes lost his quarry.

"Perhaps it is not always a bad thing when the gazelle eludes you," Susan continued. "Would the chase be worthwhile if the outcome was always assured?"

He was ready to be angry, but he could not be. There was such openness in her face, such light in her beautiful eyes, which were both silver and gold. He desired her more than he had ever desired; he felt as if he was drunk with desire.

"Sir," she said. "I am not one to trifle with the heart of a man. Do not think that I take yours lightly."

"Lady," Rabadash said grudgingly, as if he was speaking against his own character. "It is not my way to be patient, but when I look at you, I feel as though I would grant you anything."

Susan gave him a smile full of heartfelt gratitude. She knew that she loved too easily, and heartily wished that she had never fallen in love with this man with his haughty handsomeness. She knew that her love for him had come from compassion and a desire to make another living thing happy. What sorrow she had brought on them all.

In the same moment, she thought of Peter, of his great strength and unbending resolve; he had a face like a battering ram, but his eyes were the calmest, quietest, gentlest eyes Susan had ever looked into. They were the eyes of a golden-hearted child hidden beneath the strength of a man. She always felt, whenever he walked into a room, how empty the room must have been before he arrived.

She thought of Lucy, and how there never seemed to be much difference between her fair-haired sister and sunlight. Susan could never quite grasp her; Lucy always seemed to slip through her fingers again, laughing like a golden waterfall. She lit the world even when the sun was hidden.

It shattered her heart to think she might never see them again; then her mind turned to Edmund. She knew that if given the choice between his life and hers, she would always choose his. If their plans fell through tomorrow, she would marry Rabadash without a second thought, without a single tear shed, if it would save the life of her brother. She was almost astonished at how little troubled she was by the thought. His life was worth any sacrifice she could possibly make.

~o*o~

Edmund returned from the ship that afternoon and went to his room to work through his final plans. He looked up sometime later and saw Susan standing with her head resting on the doorframe as if she was too tired to hold it up any longer. The flickering lamps in the hall cast her long shadow across the floor as he rose from his chair and went to her. Susan shifted from the doorframe and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Sometimes I wish I could feel anger," Susan said after a moment. "But somehow I never can. All I find in my heart is compassion and grief. The poor man has ruined his life. He has trapped himself."

"Anger is not a virtue," Edmund replied grimly.

"I wish I had Peter's steadfastness, Lucy's courage, your pragmatism," she sighed, "But all I have to offer are love and tears."

"Hope, faith and love," Edmund replied. "The greatest of these is love."

Susan shook her head, "They call me gentle. Like a kitten, or a swan on a lake. Gentle."

Edmund opened his mouth to remind her of the courage she had shown, the steadfastness, the pragmatism…the mental fortitude to treat the man who had wronged her most with honor and kindness, so she could buy time to set her people free. Lord Peridan had told him of all that had passed.

"They call you gentle," Edmund put his hands on her shoulders, "But my dear sister…I think you have redefined gentleness."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the hardest to write. I completed the other three parts five years ago, but this chapter ended up being a spanner in the works. Susan is the most inscrutable of characters, and possibly the most human. Once Edmund (the only other Pevensie with flaws) gets over the Great Turkish Delight Caper, he is steadfast in all his ways, meanwhile Susan is unredeemed, with faith that is constantly shaken...then finally lost entirely.
> 
> Instead of being the weakest character, perhaps she is the most realistic, the one most honest about her feelings. Faith is a fragile thing, daily shaken; the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Faith is not separate from doubt, indeed, they are two sides of the same coin. Faith is the will to overcome doubt and continue to believe, even if, as Puddleglum said, there isn't any Narnia. There are things to believe in that are so beautiful, that even if they don't exist, they are more worth believing in than nothing, which is all this world has to offer.
> 
> We search for meaning because it is there...and perhaps this longing for meaning is that small measure of faith that we are all granted. My own faith is based on elimination...once all avenues have been considered, I find there is only one Answer. I have no choice but to Believe.
> 
> I never liked Susan, but perhaps it is because she is the most like me...she is the one with the faith that is easily shaken, the one who fears. Unlike C. S. Lewis, I do not believe that salvation can be lost. There is hope for Susan, just as there is hope for all of us.
> 
> God bless,
> 
> ~Rose and Psyche


	4. Wings of Night

Wings of Night

* * *

_And nearer fast and nearer_   
_Doth the red whirlwind come;_   
_And louder still and still more loud,_   
_From underneath that rolling cloud,_   
_Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud,_   
_The trampling, and the hum._   
_And plainly and more plainly_   
_Now through the gloom appears,_   
_Far to left and far to right,_   
_In broken gleams of dark-blue light_   
_The long array of helmets bright,_   
_The long array of spears..._

_Then out spake brave Horatius,_   
_The Captain of the gate:_   
_"To every man upon this earth_   
_Death cometh soon or late._   
_And how can man die better_   
_Than facing fearful odds_   
_For the ashes of his fathers_   
_And the temples of his gods._

\- Thomas Babington Macaulay

* * *

The clinking of metal and the steady squeak of leather rippled down the lines as horses bent their heads, clamping their bits between their teeth, snorting and pulling against their riders. The air was full of the sober and solemn feel of battle and as she looked down the long green slope towards the red walls of Cair Anvard, Queen Lucy…Queen Lucy the Valiant…knew she was afraid.

She sat tall and proudly on her chestnut destrier next to Edmund, listening and being listened to as she spoke mechanical words of battlefield wisdom. She had asked to come…no, _demanded_ the chance to ride beside him and she seemed cold, unfeeling and full of courage as her golden hair spiraled loose of its bun. Yet she was afraid.

"But where is his goosecap Highness?" she heard herself asking when she no longer could see Corin among those immediately around them. She wondered at the calmness of her voice, the courage in the steadiness of her hands. She was afraid.

"Not in the front, and that's good news enough. Leave well alone."

As Edmund nudged his horse forward, his voice ringing in the air, Lucy bent her bow, her quick fingers feeling the arrows in her quiver. "Archers! With me!" she called, her voice as clear and steady as Edmund's. "We must stand like a bulwark. We must stem the tide."

These Narnian archers were not the static archers with great longbows you and I generally think of; they were armed with small horse bows, and riding particularly swift and agile Northern horses, they darted from the ranks like a storm. Through most of the battle, they stayed near the rear, letting fly a hail of arrows to clear the path ahead of Edmund's army; at last they began to move forward. The Great Cats made their mark, King Edmund and King Lune had closed in and the ranks of Rabadash seemed to be wavering…but not yet broken.

Standing in her stirrups, Lucy raised her hand, her voice cutting through the battle roar, "Now is the time to show your true mettle. Are you gold at heart? Remember Narnia and bend your bows!"

With a cry, she plunged her heels into her destrier's sides, then dropping her reins and guiding her horse only with changes of her seat, she raised her bow, knocked an arrow and let fly. Behind her, the archers' horses were running hard, streaming down the slope like fire streaming down dry bracken. Rabadash's army wavered, looking up, and was forced back towards the red stone walls of the Castle.

Reaching with a well memorized hand, she drew her sword free of its sheath. She was almost upon them…twenty yards…ten…her shadow raced on ahead of her, cast by the bright golden rays of the sun. She raised her sword with a quick motion, gritting her teeth as they threatened to chatter. She was afraid.

Her horse's shoulder struck the shoulder of another horse as they jostled; the Tarkaan barely had a chance as she swung her sword down, striking him from the saddle. She marveled at the expression of fear on his face that mirrored her own. But she only had a moment to marvel before the next Tarkaan was bearing down at her, face set in a snarl. Lucy's sword was swift and sure as her horse leapt and twisted like a deer beneath her, guided only by her knees; yet she was still afraid.

In a distant part of her head, somewhere behind this wild, swinging dance of steel, Lucy heard the sounds of battle, the shrieks of the dying, the wild whinnying of horses. She knew she could not listen to it, because if she did, her fear would become too terrible to bear. But she listened anyway, and as she listened she heard a familiar voice and saw, mounted on his pony and fair hair gleaming, Corin, fighting for all he was worth. With him, with a face transfixed by terror, was another boy, as like him as two peas.

"Oh, you fool!" she gasped and instantly, all her fear was gone, replaced with empty horror. With numbed ears, she heard her own voice again, calling to deploy her archers in a line along the Narnian left flank. She sheathed her sword and found her bow, her horse wheeling away with lighting speed as she let fly another arrow which killed a Calorman about to dispatch the fair-haired boy with Corin.

Spurring her horse forward again, Lucy let out another cry; even her arrow had been too late. The boy had fallen. Distantly, she was aware that the Calormenes around the battering ram trying to break into Cair Anvard were being beaten back. Edmund and King Lune were doing glorious things with their swords, but the only thing she cared for at that moment was Corin and his fallen comrade.

As she reached the place, Corin was fighting like a man, his pony dancing. Lucy looked down between plunging horses to see that _other_ boy, nursing bloody knuckles and not at all certain what he was supposed to do. Her sword flashed like lightning as she joined the melee, defending him with the ferocity of a mother bear defending her cub.

Quite suddenly, almost before she believed it could possibly be, the battle, which had unwound wildly like a ball of string bouncing down stairs, was winding up again. The Tarkaans were throwing down their swords, there were shouts of triumph from the throats of the Narnians…and over by the red sandstone walls of Cair Anvard, Lucy heard the distant sound of laughter.

* * *

Very quietly, on the evening of Peter's return, after the merrymaking in the Great Hall grew too tiresome, Lucy went softly upstairs. Wind ruffled the roses that twined around the marble columns on the balcony. The wide doorway was open to it, a curtain of fine green and gold embroidery pulled half-aside to let in the last golden rays of the sun that reached across the floor like a remnant of time.

"Don't hang about by the door, Lu," Peter's voice came tiredly from a low couch inside the room. "Come in and keep me company. Mind the hounds."

Lucy stepped carefully across the floor, the soft toes of her shoes finding the small bare patches that were not made up of sleeping dog. There was a general chorus of whimpering and twitching paws as Peter's hounds slept on.

"How are you?" she asked, kneeling to kiss her brother where he lay on the couch at the end of the room with the best view of the Eastern Sea...calm, golden and shimmering with a thousand lights and colors as if the waves themselves were touched with magic.

"Feeling sorry for myself," he replied pleasantly.

"As am I."

Peter craned his head to look up at her, "That's not like you."

"During the battle…" Lucy trailed off, glancing back at the full gaze of the sun, low on the horizon, that painted a sky-path on the sea. She was not afraid to tell him all. "I was so very frightened…I was afraid of injury, of dying; I was afraid the day might end in the death of my brother. All the courage I had as a child was fled away and I was left only with cold fear." She bowed her head, "I am ashamed."

"Ashamed of leading the archers in the last charge? Ashamed of fighting hand-to-hand with some of Rabadash's finest Tarkaans and coming out victorious?" Peter looked up at her with the smile of a brother who knows the true mettle of his sister. "Ashamed you saved the Crown Prince of Archenland? I have heard all the details, Lucy."

"Have you?" Lucy asked with a small, bitter laugh. "Edmund told you what I did, not what I felt."

"What you do and what you feel are the same, Lucy," Peter said softly. "They each make the other. If your feelings are not true than your actions will not be, and if your actions are not true, neither are your feelings. Courage is something you make for yourself, not something you are born with."

"It's different for you," Lucy said petulantly. "You are so much Taller and more Muscly than I am."

She felt her brother's arm to prove her point. Peter chuckled; he tried not to, as he had broken some ribs some while back and they were just beginning to heal.

"Muscly, Lucy!" he gasped, "Have you forgotten the giants already? I felt far smaller next to them than you feel next to me. Here was I, waving my little sword about and shouting insults from near the ground and here they were," he waved his hand to indicate the ceiling, "Blocking the sun up there."

Lucy's face paled, "Oh Peter, I'm sorry! Was It really terrible?"

"Yes," Peter said frankly, "But then I thought of my dear and beautiful sisters and my kind and wise brother, and my mind turned to the slopes of Narnia and all the dear creatures that resided there and I grew ashamed of my fear. All men fear as much as ladies, Lucy."

Lucy shook her head sadly. "I think I have no courage. I did things in that battle…I did things; but I was completely terrified. Yet they call me Valiant."

Peter was almost laughing, "Don't you see, Lucy? That _is_ being Valiant. Those who are truly brave are the ones who watch their last drop of blood soak into the heather, and still try to rise after that. They are the ones that are wise enough to know the dangers, and noble enough to shoulder on. They are the ones who sacrifice their pride, their comfort and their lives, yet never breath a word about their loss. They are the ones who fear, but have the strength to hide their fearing. No one ever said fear was wrong, Lucy. If you didn't fear, you would be stupid, not Valiant."

"Am I Valiant?" Lucy asked, catching a sob before it came loose.

"If any of us are, it's you," Peter replied softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not exactly happy with this chapter. It doesn't fit with the book quite as well as the others do, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. So in conclusion: magnificence cannot be achieved without humility, mercy cannot be shown without justice, faith is steadfastness in the face of doubt, and courage is continuing to strive despite fear.
> 
> Magnificence and humility, mercy and justice, faith and doubt, courage and fear...in each pair, one cannot be had without the other. It is the adversity- the mountain that must be climbed- that makes each virtue worth having. You cannot grasp it for yourself...only through fire can gold be refined. The journey is as important as the destination.
> 
> Wishing you all the best,
> 
> The Sisters, Rose and Psyche


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